The ground still trembled from the aftermath of Lusei’s awakening.

  Silver-white aura cracked and pulsed around him — not like light, but like something alive. It rose in tendrils from his skin, flickering in the air like mist cut by moonlight. His cloak billowed, caught not by wind, but by force — his force. And in his eyes burned twin flames of silver, unblinking, locked on the man ahead.

  No doubt.

  No hesitation.

  Just purpose.

  Veyren, bruised and bloodied, slowly dragged himself to his feet. Dirt streaked his face. His sword arm shook. And still, he stared back with fury — but there was something else in his eyes now.

  Fear.

  The kind a man hides when he realizes he just stepped off a cliff.

  “What… are you?” he muttered.

  Lusei stepped forward. The ground pulsed with him — like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

  “Your debt,” he said. Voice cold. Steady.

  Then he moved.

  Fast.

  A blur of silver and shadow, crossing the space between them in less than a breath. Veyren brought his blade up just in time to catch the edge of a crescent-shaped arc of energy slicing in from Lusei’s left. It didn’t cut — but it hit like a hammer, knocking him off-balance.

  By the time he turned, Lusei was gone.

  Then behind him.

  “Echo Step,” Lusei whispered, almost casual — and drove a knee into Veyren’s spine, sending him staggering forward.

  Veyren roared and spun, rage taking the reins.

  “You think light tricks and vanishing acts make you a god?!”

  He slashed wildly.

  Lusei caught the blade with his hand.

  It hissed and sparked against his silver-imbued palm, caught like it’d struck stone.

  “No,” Lusei said. “But they make me enough.”

  With a shove, he broke the clash — then slammed a palm into Veyren’s chest, launching him through a tree with a crack of splintering wood.

  Silence.

  Then—

  Veyren staggered from the wreckage, aura rippling, eyes blazing with hate.

  “You’re stronger,” he spat. “Faster. But let’s see how long that glow lasts.”

  His right arm pulsed — red-black veins of corrupted magic crawling up to his shoulder. He raised his sword and slammed it into the dirt.

  “Nightbrand: Grave Requiem.”

  The ground fractured.

  A shockwave of dark energy erupted outward, tendrils of corrupted force lashing like hungry shadows.

  Lusei barely raised a silver barrier — it held for a second, maybe two.

  Then shattered.

  The force hit him full-on, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the earth. He skidded across dirt and stone, coughing blood.

  His aura flickered.

  Unstable.

  “Not invincible,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

  He rose — barely.

  The New Moon Phase burned inside him. Not borrowed. Given. His own. But too much. Too heavy. His body couldn’t hold it cleanly — the edges frayed, the flow unstable.

  The moves — they were in him.

  Like instinct. Muscle memory he didn’t earn.

  But each movement cost him more.

  Like trying to sprint underwater.

  He blocked another strike — but late. He countered — but wide.

  Too slow, he thought. Not because I can’t. Because my body isn’t ready yet.

  Still, he stood.

  Held.

  Veyren grinned, stepping from the smoke like a demon pulled from myth. “Figured it out, did you? That power’s not a blessing — it’s a weight.”

  Lusei steadied his breath. His aura flared. Sharper now. Controlled.

  “I’m not done.”

  He raised his arms.

  Twin blades of crescent energy formed in his hands — curved, precise, humming with moonlight.

  Veyren lunged, sword high, aura chaotic.

  But Lusei vanished.

  “Echo Step: Shifted Moon.”

  Then—behind.

  A low sweep — silver light slicing Veyren’s leg cleanly.

  The battle mage dropped to a knee, growling in pain.

  Lusei didn’t wait.

  He pivoted, planted a hand to the ground — then fired a burst of energy upward in a column beneath Veyren’s feet.

  The mage was launched.

  Mid-air. Wide open.

  Lusei blurred again — now above him.

  “Moonlight Arc.”

  He brought the blade down in a wide, crescent slash — a gleam of silver light that cleaved through air and armor alike.

  Boom.

  Veyren hit the ground like a meteor, the earth cracking beneath him.

  He rolled onto his back, coughing blood, spitting curses.

  Still breathing.

  Still dangerous.

  Lusei’s aura surged harder — the crescent mark on his arm glowing like a star about to burst. The rhythm in his body — pulsing, rising, ready.

  He could feel it.

  The potential.

  But also the strain. The price.

  The battlefield was still.

  Veyren lay broken in the dirt, gasping. His leg — gone from the knee down — was a mess of blood and scorched flesh. The dark aura that had once wrapped his body like a storm now flickered and died, like a flame drowned in its own smoke.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Lusei stood over him, the glow of the New Moon Phase still pulsing in arcs across his arms and chest. His hand was raised — the crescent energy sharpening into a final strike.

  Veyren coughed hard, spitting blood into the dirt.

  “Heh… so that’s it then?” he rasped, looking up at the silver glow. “You gonna burn me out like the rest?”

  Lusei’s expression didn’t change.

  He could end this.

  Right now.

  Veyren wheezed, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “That power of yours… it’s beautiful. Terrifying. But it costs. You know that, don’t you?” His voice cracked. “Power like that… doesn’t just appear. It echoes. Draws things. Things that want it. Or fear it.”

  He laughed — short and bitter.

  “Whatever gave that to you… you better hope it doesn’t want it back.”

  Lusei’s arm remained still.

  Then he heard it — not in his ears, but in his memory.

  Celeste’s voice.

  “Use it well. And only in good.”

  He hesitated.

  The silver light in his hand rippled.

  Then Lusei exhaled through his nose and lowered his gaze.

  “No,” he said quietly. “You’re right. There’s a cost.”

  His hand flared again, brighter this time.

  “But this is the good I know. This is how I protect the weak.”

  He stepped forward — and brought his palm down.

  A controlled burst of silver energy exploded through Veyren’s chest. Clean. Swift. Final.

  The battle mage’s body jerked once — then went still.

  The last of the dark aura drifted away into the sky like smoke finally let go of fire.

  Silence.

  Then the sound of panicked footsteps behind him.

  Lusei turned just enough to see the remaining crew — the slavers — already fleeing into the trees, weapons abandoned, faces pale with fear.

  He didn’t chase.

  Let them run.

  Let them carry fear with them.

  The New Moon Phase began to fade. The glow dimmed. The air settled.

  And Lusei staggered.

  His body, which had carried the power like armor a moment ago, now felt like it had been hollowed out.

  He dropped to one knee, gasping.

  Every limb screamed.

  His skin ached.

  Muscles twitched and locked in waves.

  He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

  Even with this power — especially with this power — he was still just a boy with too much fire in his hands.

  I need to train, he thought, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. This body… isn’t enough yet.

  But he forced himself up.

  One step.

  Then another.

  The wagons stood still, untouched in the aftermath. One of them, half-covered with tarps, had chains bolted into its frame. Lusei reached for the latch and pulled the doors open.

  What he saw inside froze him in place.

  There were eight captives.

  Four children — no older than ten — huddled close to each other, dirt and bruises marking their skin. Their eyes, wide and glassy, flinched at the sudden light.

  But they weren’t like the human villagers.

  Their features were sharper. Ears slightly elongated. Hair ranging from snow white to pale silver, even though they were young. Their eyes gleamed — not just with fear, but with an unnatural clarity. Something ethereal lingered in them.

  Not elves. Not exactly.

  But close.

  Otherworldly.

  Beside them were three women — all sharing the same features: tall, lithe frames, long braids, markings etched faintly across their skin like ceremonial ink. Their wrists and ankles were bound, but their posture — even kneeling — was proud. Defiant.

  The last figure — a male — stood out even among them.

  He sat chained in the farthest corner, legs folded beneath him like a boulder carved into place. His skin was a deep, earthen gray. His shoulders wide enough to nearly fill the back wall. His eyes, burning gold, watched Lusei carefully.

  Power radiated from him — quiet, heavy, like stone waiting to move.

  Lusei’s heart pounded.

  He stepped inside slowly, letting the light of the doorway spill in behind him.

  “…You’re safe now,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  No one moved.

  Not yet.

  Then one of the children — the smallest — took a cautious step forward. Her silver eyes flicked to his glowing arm. To the moon-shaped token still tied at his belt.

  She reached out — and touched it gently.

  Lusei didn’t move.

  And for the first time, something passed between them.

  Recognition.

  The child looked back at the others and nodded.

  The chains clattered to the ground.

  One by one, the captives stepped out from the wagon, blinking against the daylight. Their bodies were weak — some trembling, others holding on to one another like the world might shift beneath them again at any moment.

  Then one of the women stepped forward. Her long silver braid draped over her shoulder, her face lined with fading bruises and quiet resolve.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice steady despite everything.

  Lusei gave a small nod. “You don’t have to thank me. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.”

  Another woman spoke, then a child — slowly, they pieced together what had happened.

  Veyren and his crew had come posing as traders. By nightfall, they turned to butchers. Their village, west of the forest trail, was overrun before anyone could react. The warriors were slaughtered. The women and children — the ones considered "valuable" — taken in chains.

  “They said we’d sell high,” the braided woman whispered bitterly. “Because of our blood.”

  Lusei clenched his jaw.

  He looked at the group — frightened, bruised, but alive.

  “You’re safe now,” he said. “You can go home.”

  But the woman shook her head.

  “There is no home. They burned it. Took everything.”

  Before Lusei could respond, a heavy thud landed behind him.

  He turned — and saw a towering figure stepping down from the rear of the wagon.

  The man was massive. Taller than anyone Lusei had met, his frame built like a mountain — solid muscle and quiet strength. His skin was a deep gray-brown, weathered and marked by faint scars. A thick leather strap crossed his bare chest, and his boots looked like they’d marched across every terrain in the world.

  Despite the size, his movements were careful — respectful.

  He placed a fist to his chest and bowed deeply.

  “You have my thanks,” he said in a voice like rolling thunder. “You didn’t just save lives. You gave us back our dignity.”

  Lusei blinked, a bit awkward. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered. “Veyren and his crew were… scum. I just did what I promised myself I would do.”

  The man straightened, then stepped forward and offered his hand — massive and calloused.

  “I am Rodan, of the Durnathi.”

  Lusei took his hand — or rather, let it wrap around his.

  “Lusei,” he said simply.

  Some of the children whispered his name like they were memorizing it.

  Lusei glanced between Rodan and the Sylari. “You’re different from them,” he said. “I mean… clearly.”

  Rodan nodded. “They are Sylari. Forestborn. Their blood flows with nature’s rhythm — gifted in magic, tied to the land. They hear what most cannot. See what most won’t.”

  Then he tapped his own chest. “And I am Durnathi. Born of cliff and stone. We shape the mountain, and it shapes us in return. Strong backs. Stronger wills.”

  Lusei nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

  He looked up again. “But why were you with them? Are you part of their village?”

  Rodan’s face grew still.

  “They took me in when I was wounded,” he said. “Gave me shelter. I owed them my strength.”

  He turned his gaze toward the Sylari. “When the slavers came, I fought. Took down two. But Veyren… he was different. Fast. Precise. Not a man — a blade with a face.”

  “You still tried,” Lusei said. “That’s more than most.”

  Rodan looked at him. “And you finished what I could not.”

  For a moment, they stood in silence. The air was still. The children huddled around their protectors. The wagons smoldered behind them like the last breath of something dark finally dying.

  Lusei stood near the broken caravan, wind brushing past his cloak, the scent of ash and soil still thick in the air. The chaos of the battle had faded, replaced now by the low murmurs of those who had once been caged.

  One of the Sylari women approached him — the one with long silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, her steps graceful and light, like her feet barely touched the ground. Her eyes, a pale lavender, held gratitude and calm strength.

  She gave a slight bow, hands folded in front of her. “Lusei, if it’s alright… may we take one of the wagons? There are supplies in the back — enough to last us a few days if we travel lightly.”

  Lusei nodded. “Of course. You don’t need to ask. But… what’s the plan now? You said your home’s gone.”

  She gave a faint, wistful smile. “The forest is our home, always. And the forest is vast. We’ll find another haven somewhere… somewhere safer than before.”

  Lusei glanced at Rodan, who stood nearby, arms crossed, silent and watchful.

  “You going with them?” he asked. “If not, you alright with them taking the wagon?”

  Rodan shook his head. “Let them take it. They need it more than I do. And no, I won’t be going with them.”

  Lusei raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Rodan shrugged, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I owe them, true. But I owe you more.”

  Lusei smiled back and turned to the Sylari woman. “Then it’s settled. Take what you need and use it to find a new start.”

  She placed a hand over her chest and dipped her head again. “May the light of the forest guide you, Moonborne.”

  Then she added, in a soft, musical language Lusei didn’t recognize — words that fluttered like wind through leaves. A farewell, in the Sylari way.

  The others gathered with her, and after securing the wagon and what they could carry, they set off, disappearing into the green veil of the trees, their silhouettes soon lost to the forest’s embrace.

  Lusei exhaled quietly, watching them go.

  Rodan stood beside him, arms still folded, silent.

  Lusei glanced his way. “It’s not too late, you know. You could catch up. They’d welcome you.”

  Rodan chuckled. “That’s a good path, no doubt. But I’ve already found mine.”

  Lusei turned to face him fully. “What do you mean?”

  Rodan looked him in the eye. “I’m not heading back to the mountains. I’m heading forward — with you.”

  Then, without warning, the massive Durnathi dropped to one knee and lowered his head.

  “I owe you my life, Moonborne. And by the way of the Durnathi, when a life is saved — it is pledged. Let me walk at your side. Let me fight at your side. Let me bleed, if need be. This is my oath.”

  Lusei blinked, startled. “Wait, what? No— come on, Rodan, stand up. That’s not—”

  “I will not,” Rodan said firmly, his voice steady as stone. “This is how we show honor. This is how we give it meaning.”

  Lusei hesitated, the weight of it hitting him — not just the gesture, but what it meant. Loyalty. Purpose. Bond.

  He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

  “…You’re really serious about this?”

  Rodan looked up, eyes calm and resolute. “As serious as war. As serious as friendship.”

  Lusei sighed. “Then… alright. I accept. But no kneeling every five minutes, got it?”

  Rodan rose to his full height, grinning wide. “Only this once.”

  They both laughed — the kind that comes not from comfort, but from shared survival.

  And just like that, Lusei was no longer walking alone.

  The sky was turning gold, casting long shadows over the dirt path ahead. Behind them, the forest whispered with fading echoes — of battle, of freedom, of choices made.

  Rodan stood beside Lusei, silent for a moment as he stared into the horizon.

  “So,” he asked, “where to now?”

  Lusei kept his eyes on the road stretching east. “Elaren,” he said. “The capital.”

  Rodan nodded. “And what are we looking for there?”

  Lusei’s voice dropped slightly, quieter. “Information. About someone I used to know.”

  Rodan studied him for a moment, then nodded again. No questions. Just trust.

  “Then I’ll follow you,” he said. “Wherever that path leads.”

  Lusei offered a small, grateful nod. “Let’s go, Rodan. To Elaren.”

  And with that, the two stepped forward — the first steps of a journey that would test everything they were… and everything they might become.